


Beets Untitled

by LinkWorshiper



Series: Sit, Resist [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinkWorshiper/pseuds/LinkWorshiper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy plays; Thomas watches; Elsie observes. </p>
<p>Another little drabble post-suicide attempt to fit in with the other ones. Still grossly unedited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beets Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> These little drabbles have been helping me keep sane during finals, especially when Thomas comes to mind. Still grossly unedited, but I hope you like it. This one's a little different from the last two. The song, Tea For Two, which Jimmy's singing in this story, is from a musical written during the 20's called No No Nanette.

 

Late one night, the twinkle of piano keys wafted through the downstairs halls, drawing Elsie Hughes from her sitting room with curiosity. In recent years, the mood had become somber, like a certain joy had been extinguished as times grew more tumultuous, and the trill of music almost seemed like something from another lifetime. It needled her with nostalgia.

She was just turning the corner when she nearly collided with Anna, who had been walking in the opposite direction with a private sort of mirth that had taken her quite far away. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes,” she distractedly apologized, shaking her wits back about her; “It's just... rather endearing, that's all.”

“What is?” Mrs. Hughes wondered, peering around Anna as if the answer was to be found somewhere in the empty passageway. The music had taken on a jazzy quality beneath her comment, a most foreign tone since Lady Rose had gone.

Anna shrugged her shoulders with another knowing smile. “You'd best see for yourself,” she said before stepping around Mrs. Hughes and mounting the stairs to help Lady Mary to bed.

Her interest well and truly piqued, Mrs. Hughes continued towards the servants' hall and surreptitiously lingered in the doorway to find out what was going on. A wistful expression overcame her as she took in the scene.

Thomas and Jimmy sat side-by-side in a pair of chairs that had been pulled up to the piano, their backs turned towards her. Unaware that he had a new audience member, Jimmy hammered out an endless string of melodies for Thomas, who looked on in silence. Mrs. Hughes couldn't see either of their faces, but something about their postures – the way their shoulders were subtly pressed against one another and the jaunty rise and fall of Jimmy's shoulders as he pumped out a quick rag – told her that they were sharing a happy moment. After the grim nature of Thomas's recent crash, it sincerely warmed her to find him content.

“ _Picture you upon my knee, just tea for two and two for tea,_ ” sang Jimmy in a low tenor. His fingers continued to play the song with automatic ease even as he knocked his shoulder pointedly into Thomas's, speaking in place of the verse: “What d'ya say to that, Thomas?”

“I'd say I don't know the words, Jimmy,” answered Thomas with the faintest echo of his trademarked sarcasm – another lilt that had been noticeably absent in the house since the last time Jimmy had been there.

“Make 'em up, then,” said Jimmy, who vamped a particularly pleasing bridge as he shifted between the song's two major keys and then started to scat along with the melody.

“Cheeky,” snorted Thomas. The cut of his chin and nose flickered briefly into Mrs. Hughes's view as he angled his gaze towards Jimmy to add, “You need to stop speakin' in code.”

Jimmy scoffed, “Tch! I always say what I mean – and I mean what I say!” Still, the way his fingers continued to call up an underlying tune almost acted as a contradiction to his claim.

Thomas didn't immediately reply, entranced by the flex of Jimmy's bony fingers as they danced across the keyboard. They seemed so lively and purposeful, creating something lovely like music with such natural skill. Thomas's own hands were clamped between his knees, where he wouldn't have to look at them: the wartime memories his blighty triggered within him had been bad enough, but combined with the long, scarring gouges that were still padded with gauze underneath his forearms, the very idea of his hands made his stomach twist. Scars and marks were only good for distinguishing his limbs from those of people who actually had hearts and a beat to go with them.

Jimmy danced through a few more bars of the song before Thomas spoke again. Quietly, he mumbled, “So you mean it when you say there's nowhere you'd rather be than – than _with me_?”

With a heavy plunk beneath all ten fingers, Jimmy abruptly cut off his piano playing to deliver Thomas a particularly stern look – one which Mrs. Hughes had never seen cross the usually flippant blond's face before. “I meant it when I told you I wished you happiness – y'know _that_ day,” Jimmy said in so low a tone, even the silence nearly swallowed it.

“You said that and left me alone,” Thomas frowned, feeling small.

“Sometimes you gotta just say things 'cause you've got to,” Jimmy murmured. He reached for Thomas's lap, pushing his fingers between his knees so that he could pull one of Thomas's hands into his own. The palm he caught was the war wounded one, which was rough and callused in his grip without its usual bandage to cover it. “Y'know – a self-preservation sort of thing.”

Thomas stared at their joined hands, trying hard to fight the heaviness that overcame him when he compared his ugly, battered one against how pretty he thought Jimmy's was. “I s'pose I know a bit about that,” he conceded glumly, the ghost that made him do wrong still clawing at his arms with urgency even then. That ghost did more harm than Thomas was ever capable of on his own.

Suddenly, Jimmy's nearest arm had snaked around Thomas's shoulders, long fingers threading through the dark hair smoothed against the back of his scalp to bend Thomas's forehead low enough for Jimmy to press a kiss against his brow. “If I could say it all again – if it weren't me tryin' to keep me face brave,” he said against Thomas's skin, “I'd tell you how I'd've stayed me whole life in this bloody house if it meant stayin' here with you.” He bent their heads against one another, their temples touching through mussed forelocks.

Then Jimmy tightened his grip on Thomas's wounded hand, which he still held firmly, and lifted it to his mouth to lay a flurry of soft kisses against the red knuckles; “And how I'm still so sorry” – he kissed the knob of the next digit – “sorry, sorry” – his lips lingered against the curve of Thomas's index finger – “'Cause I never meant to go.”

“I'm the sorrier,” mumbled Thomas, who still blamed himself for their misfortune. Even with Jimmy so close, there was still so much for Thomas to be scared of – things that still hadn't washed up even after everything had dried up. But Jimmy's palm was warm and his fingers were wrapped around; Thomas could feel the bump of Jimmy's heart through the skin. _Don't let me slow it down_ , Thomas thought; _I'll only slow it down_....

“I left a piece of me here with you,” said Jimmy. He wrapped both his arms around Thomas's middle and squeezed; “I'm glad I've got it back.”

All the while, Mrs. Hughes watched the pair quietly with motherly eyes. She had been disappointed to see Jimmy go, but she hadn't realized she would be so pleased so see him back. Something about him brought out bits in Thomas that would otherwise have been stifled beneath hot pride and a thick shell – a funny notion considering that Jimmy could be just as prideful and defensive as his dark-haired counterpart. Jimmy started to play the piano again, and Mrs. Hughes could only smile.

“Is there something of concern?” came a baritone grumble from behind Mrs. Hughes. She turned to find Mr. Carson in his overcoat and bowler, ready for their nightly walk back to the cottage they now shared as man and wife. His discerning eyes bore through the doorway as he loomed at her shoulder, surveying the improper nearness between the two men at the piano. He let out a heavy sigh, adding mostly to himself, “Because I don't think we need any of _that_ business on top of everything else we've had to suffer as of late.”

“I don't think you're in a place to talk about _suffering_ ,” Mrs. Hughes admonished in a sharp tone – the same one she'd have used to discipline even the lowliest maid on staff. “Besides, James isn't doing any harm. I'd say he's been quite helpful.”

“Helpful in making this a house of ill repute, you mean,” Mr. Carson complained, his mind quick to call up the numerous scandals stamped with the name of 'James Kent'. He shot another disapproving look into the servants' hall, where Jimmy was rotating through various songs until he found ones that Thomas knew the lyrics to.

“And you'd rather this be a house famous for inflicting misery on those in its employ?” Mrs. Hughes retorted. She lifted her chin, nodding at the oblivious pair, whose private ways with one another was a stark contrast to the faces they wore for their daily performances around the rest of them. “And besides,” she observed; “Can't you see how much they need each other?”

“I don't think I care for your insinuations. It is simply not the same!” huffed Mr. Carson with enough gusto to almost give their presence away.

“Isn't it?” wondered Mrs. Hughes, taking a step back towards her sitting room so that she might also fetch her coat and hat. She paused briefly on her way to leave her husband with a thought: “No one ever _picks_ who they get stuck with. It just sort of... happens, wouldn't you say?”

Hung without the last word, Mr. Carson knit his eyebrows into a thick line across his nose, frowning as his wife walked away. He wanted to contest her point, but it was impossible, for all he could think of was a particular afternoon at the beach, where he'd held her hand and realized that doing so made him steady enough to do anything. Behind him, the piano resounded gaily with Jimmy's voice; Thomas was a terrible singer, but Jimmy didn't seem to mind, far more interested in Thomas's participation than anything else.

“ _Just tea for two and two for tea!”_

Mr. Carson tugged the lapels of his jacket, and then went down the hall after his wife.

 

 


End file.
